The Naming (2 page)

In the cowbyre she leaned her forehead into the warm flanks of a dark-eyed cow, who stood patiently chewing cud as she kneaded its full udder. The milk splashed rhythmically into the pail. Maerad was on the brink of sleep when suddenly the cow almost kicked her and then tried to rear. Maerad started awake, rescuing the pail—spilled milk would mean a beating—and tried to calm the animal. Normally a word would do, but the creature kept snorting and stamping, pulling the chains that held her hind leg and head as if she were distressed or frightened.

The hair on the back of Maerad's neck prickled. She had a strange, taut feeling, as if there were about to be a storm and the air was crackling with imminent lightning. She looked around the byre.

A man stood there, not ten feet away, a man she had never seen before. For a moment, shock stopped her breath. The man was tall, and his stern face was shadowed by a dark, roughly woven woolen hood. She stood up and reached for a rushlight, uncertain whether to shout for help.

"Who are you?" she said sharply.

The man was silent.

She began to feel afraid. "Who are you?" she asked again. Was it a wer out of the mountains? A ghost? "Avaunt, black spirit!"

"Nay," he said at last. "Nay, I am no black spirit. No wer in a man's skin. No. Forgive me." He sighed heavily. "I am tired, and I am wounded. I am not quite—myself."

He smiled, but it was more like a wince, and as the rushlight fell past his hood and illuminated his features, Maerad saw that he was gray with exhaustion. His face was arresting: it seemed neither young nor old, the countenance of a man of perhaps thirty-five years, but somehow with the authority of age. He
was high-cheekboned, with a firm mouth and large, deep-set eyes. He held her gaze. "And who are you, young witch-maiden? It takes sharp eyes to see the likes of me, although perhaps my art fails me. Name yourself."

"Who are you to ask me?" said Maerad pugnaciously. It occurred to her, with a pang of surprise, that she didn't feel afraid—although, she thought in that split second, she ought to be.

The man looked hard at her, searching her face. He staggered slightly and corrected himself, and then smiled again, as if in apology.

"I am Cadvan, of the School of Lirigon," he said. "Now, mistress, how do they name you?"

"Maerad," she said, almost whispering. She felt suddenly at a complete loss, confused by his politeness.

"Maerad of the Mountains?" the stranger said with a wry smile.

"Of... of Gilman's fastness," she said haltingly. And then with a rush: "I'm a slave here...."

"A slave?"

Steps sounded outside and Lothar's bulk darkened the door. "Where's that milk? What are you doing there; have you lost your wits? Are you looking for the whip? If the butter doesn't turn, we'll know who to blame."

He was not pleased with her, after her rebuff that morning. But again Maerad caught her breath in shock. Although the stranger stood plain in his sight, Lothar seemed to look right through him.

"I'm—I'm sorry," she stammered. "The cattle are restless—"

She sat on her stool and leaned forward to the cow again, who now stood patiently. Lothar watched her while she milked. She willed him to go away. After a short time, she heard his steps leaving and she relaxed a little. She kept milking, because
she needed time to gather her thoughts. The stranger still stood there, watching her.

"Maerad," said the stranger quietly. "I wish you no harm. I am tired, and I need to sleep. That's why I'm here." He passed his hand over his brow, and then leaned against the wall of the byre.

"He didn't see you," she said blankly, still milking steadily to cover her amazement.

"No, it is a small thing .. ." he said, almost abstractedly. "A mere glimmerspell. What is interesting is that you saw me." He stared at her again, with that searching, disturbing gaze. Maerad felt suddenly shy before him, as if she were naked, and turned her face aside. She felt his eyes upon her, and then a kind of release as he looked away. Involuntarily she shook herself. She heard him shift and sit down.

"I wish I were not so tired," he said at last, and then asked, "You were not always a slave?"

"My mother wasn't a slave," Maerad answered, speaking reluctantly, as if against her will. "Gilman bought her and kept her here, when I was very little. I think he wanted to ransom her, but none came to ransom." She paused, and added flatly, "And then she died." She coiled around to face him, with a flash of anger. "What business is it of yours?" she demanded. "Who are you to ask me?"

The stranger seemed unperturbed, meeting her gaze calmly.

"What was your mother's name?"

"Milana. Milana of Pellinor, Singer of the Gift, Daughter of the First Circle. My father. . ." She stopped milking, and her hands flew to her mouth in astonishment. "Oh!"

"Oh, indeed," said Cadvan.

"I mean, my mother was called Milana, that's all I remember. . .." Maerad trailed off in confusion. "She, she died when I was seven years old.... I don't know anything about... about the rest. Did you make me say that?"

"Make? No, I can't
make
you say anything. I asked, and the doors of your mind flew open. There is more in that treasury than most people realize. The School of Pellinor," he said, as if to himself. "That was sacked, oh, years ago. It was thought all were killed." He fell silent, and Maerad, shaken, continued milking. What was this man talking about? Was he mazing her, as wild spirits were said to do, bewildering her senses before snaring her? But he did not seem evil.

"By what right do you come in here and say... and say such things? I could call the Thane's men...." She stuttered to a halt. Somehow she knew she wouldn't call the guards.

The stranger put his face in his hands and didn't answer her. Maerad glanced at him angrily. She finished milking the cow and turned her loose, bringing in the next one. Cadvan was still sitting, unmoving, in the same position.

"You can't stay here, if you are of Pellinor," he said at last.

Maerad looked across at the stranger with a sudden wild hope. Did he mean that he knew some way to free her? But no one could escape from the cot....

He looked up at her. "Could you—perhaps—spare some milk?"

Wordlessly she offered him the milk pail. After a long drink, he wiped his mouth and smiled. "A blessing on you, and on your house," he said. Maerad nodded impatiently, brushing off the courtesy. "Will you have to come to the byre again?" he asked. "Today, I mean."

She examined his face suspiciously. "Yes, I am sectioned here today," she said at last. "I'll be milking again in the evening. Why?"

"Good." He stretched and yawned. "I'll sleep now. We'll talk later—yes, when I am less tired."

He cast himself down on the hay and was asleep almost instantly. Maerad looked down at him, considering whether to
kick him awake and make him answer her questions, or to call the guards after all. But for reasons she couldn't trace, she did neither. Instead, she finished the milking and left him there. She was beaten for the missing milk.

That day Maerad was so absent-minded, she was lucky to escape a second beating. At her tasks in the milchyard—churning butter or setting the milk in bowls for soured drinks—she scarcely saw what she was doing. At first she didn't know what she felt about the man in the byre. Her mind, practiced at the evasions necessary for survival, skipped over the thought of him; he was, in a way, unthinkable. But every now and then an image of his dark face rose unbidden in her mind, and with it an unsettling feeling she couldn't name: a skin-prickling premonition, not exactly unpleasant, but not quite comfortable either. If she had been a child used to name-day celebrations, she might have likened it to the feeling of anticipating a present, but she knew no such celebrations. At the same time, the blank, impassive mask under which she survived seemed to have disappeared, leaving her exposed and a little frightened. It was as if the stranger had opened a door, long shut in her mind, and a cold fresh wind blew in, waking her from a stupor.
Who am I?
she wondered, and the question hurt.

She was used to her own strangeness. It had often been a protection as much as a curse. Because of her blue eyes and black hair, the fair-haired Northerners called her a witch, and she had played the part from an early age, making a virtue of what set her apart. And Maerad did possess the power of cursing: if she glared at someone, they might trip over and fall for no reason, or a beaker might fall from a shelf and break on their head, and once she had blinded a man for three days. She was also especially good with animals, another sign of witchcraft; those she tended grew fat and yielded twice the milk of the
others. Most of the slaves feared and avoided her, and Gilman's men. . . well, the Thane's men had also learned to leave her alone.

Gilman was deeply superstitious and, like all bullies, a devout coward. He believed that if Maerad were murdered, her ghost would drive him to a grisly death: madden him until he ran out into the wolfhunt, perhaps, or skewer him slowly with invisible knives of fire. So Maerad escaped the worst details, which caused comment and petty malice among many of her fellow slaves. Recently this resentment had flared into open violence: a month ago six women had attacked her and tried to drown her in the duck pond. They had almost succeeded, but Gilman had rushed out of the hall, red-faced with panic, and hauled her out of the water. Though Maerad was cuffed for the trouble she had caused, the slaves who tormented her were whipped and given no food for three days. Saved by Gilman! She grinned without humor at the irony. It had stopped the persecution, for the moment—but now no one spoke to her at all, apart from idiots like Lothar.

If it hadn't been for her music, she might have killed herself, or let the demons in her head taunt her into madness. Or she might have just turned into stone and become like the rest of them, brutalized of all feeling. Her lyre was her one possession, the only thing she still had of her mother. It was small, fitting into the crook of her arms like a baby, a bare wooden instrument with no decoration except some indecipherable carvings, but its tone was pure and true. One of her earliest memories was of her mother playing it, plucking the strings and singing to Maerad; she guessed she must have been very young, because her mother had not been sad.

Maerad could play like a true minstrel; her ear was accurate, and she only had to hear a tune once to repeat it. Mirlad, Gilman's Bard, discovered her talent after her mother died. She
was only seven years old then, and he somehow persuaded Gilman to relieve Maerad from morning duties so he could teach her. Mirlad, gruff, taciturn, sometimes cruelly harsh, had been her teacher until she turned thirteen: then Gilman demanded her labor in the fields again. Maerad remembered her misery at that decision, and Mirlad's odd response. "I've taught you everything I know about music," he had said, shrugging indifferently. "Anything else would be a waste here. You can play in the evenings, anyway."

Her musicianship compounded her isolation, but it was another reason Gilman tolerated her: Mirlad had died some two years before, although perhaps only Maerad mourned his passing, and she was now the only person in the cot with the skill to play at the riots. She played for herself, privately, whenever she could, and those snatched moments were the only consolation of her degraded life.

Milana. My mother. How long since I thought of
 
you? You braided my hair each night, even if your hands shook with tiredness, and you played me pretty tunes when I felt sad or when someone beat me, and kissed me, just there, on my forehead.. . .
Maerad's mind flinched from the memory of her mother's death, how she had sickened, wasted by fever and pain and grief. She had died, that was all, and after that Maerad was alone.

For as long as she could remember, Maerad had dreamed of escaping Gilman's Cot. But year after year passed and brought only the knowledge that escape was impossible. Hope had ebbed little by little, until, though Maerad did not know it, she wore the same sad beauty that she remembered of her mother. Now, this
Cadvan
—she said the name to herself, privately— had appeared out of nowhere, as if walls and guards and dogs did not exist.

As the day wore on, she turned over the morning's conversation with an increasing impatience. Sometimes she convinced
herself that she had dreamed the stranger, that he was an illusion of her exhaustion, a shadowy projection of the longing that burned within. She had thought hope was dead inside her, but now she realized that it merely slumbered, like ash-gray embers that held yet a glowing heart, which the merest breath might fan into flame.

The hours dragged, but at last it was evening. Just before she went to the byre, prompted by a sudden impulse, Maerad slipped back to her quarters and took her lyre from where she kept it, wrapped in sacking under her pallet.

Cadvan was still there, lying on his back in the byre, his hands folded behind his head, apparently studying the ceiling. He was not so gray-faced now, although there were still dark circles under his eyes. He smiled at Maerad when she entered, but when he saw the fresh welts on her legs from the beating earlier that day, his smile faded. She looked back at him expressionlessly, waiting for him to speak. He sighed and stood up.

"Well, Maerad, I've had a little time to think," he said. "This is a foul, noisome place; the animals are better treated than the people here. That is unjust enough." He paused. "Do you wish to leave?"